We're Back! We're Still Rocking! We're Moving

 Books That Rock is moving to Substack!

In the interest of keeping my sanity over the next four years, I am reviving my rock book reviews. The archive will remain here, but new and old reviews will be available on Substack. Please head over and subscribe. The stack will remain free and I vow never to use AI.

ETA: You know what, nevermind. I learned that Substack is aligned with right wing nonsense. I have no desire to mix with that. My blog will stay here for now until I find an alternative.

Rush's 2112 - The 33 1/3 Book That Wasn't/Wouldn't Be

I knew it was a long shot going in. I had not written a book of music criticism or history; my catalog is mostly fiction - romance and mystery...genres people don't always take seriously. I could tell you stories of the elite literati sniffing at my offerings at book events, but I'm already in a bad mood. 

When I saw the submissions call for the 33 1/3 book series during the lockdown, I figured why not try. It had been four years since I published a book-length work of any sort, and since my mother-in-law's sudden passing in 2016 I lost my drive. 2020 hadn't fared much better - COVID coupled with losing my father, and writing a proposal at least took my mind off the gloom.

I picked 2112 because A) uh, huge Rush fan, and B) an album such as this seemed ideal for a book. The album not only presents a story, but its place in the band's history is important in their story. 2112 was the make it or break it album, one that on paper should have ended the group, but instead elevated them. I learned recently, too, that somebody had pitched 2112 in 2014 and didn't make the cut, either. I won't speculate on why I wasn't offered a spot in the series - I don't really want to know. I've lived a brittle year, and the last thing I need is for some stranger with a music theory degree telling me that my writing sucks.

I do not intend to pitch another book, Rush or otherwise. I enjoyed the experience. I liked that I could still find pleasure in writing, even if it wasn't fiction. Who knows, I may write this book anyway. What's to stop me?

Anyway, I checked their website and there's nothing there that says I can't post my proposal. I won't, but I will share the beginning of the Introduction I had drafted. You tell me.

Actually, don't tell me. It's still brittle here.

~

The children of today will never know the pleasure of opening the Sunday newspaper to the comics section and finding an advertisement for the Columbia Record & Tape Club. Consequently, the parents of today are spared the frustration of getting rooked into a shady business model that relied heavily on a nation’s collective memory lapse to succeed.

From the late 1960s through the 1990s, Columbia Records operated the subsidiary Columbia House, a music by mail subscription program that enticed new customers through its introductory X-number of records/cassettes/CDs for a penny deal. One might find a gatefold ad in the Sunday paper, People Magazine or The National Enquirer, complete with a perforated sheet of album cover “stamps” from which one could select twelve titles to stick to a return postcard. Four to six weeks later your order arrived, along with a difficult-to-end obligation to purchase at least one new selection every month for the foreseeable future at (a severely marked-up) regular price.

So, as you whiled away the days spinning the latest releases from Queen and Aerosmith, the good folks at Columbia House had your information plugged into some algorithm that determined the next record to be sent to your house...if you didn’t place an order for something else beforehand. You’d get a postcard to warn you, but maybe it got tossed -- mistaken for junk mail -- or maybe you set it aside, thinking you had time to decide. That’s how you, the Queen and Aerosmith fan, would end up with a copy of Englebert Humperdinck’s Greatest Hits that would cost more in postage to return.

It came to pass, in the summer of 1976, that such a memory lapse helped introduce my future husband to Rush.

He was eleven years old and had had his fill of The Statler Brothers and similar crossover country-gospel acts his parents favored. He enrolled in the club to build a collection of artists he, as an aspiring rock/jazz pianist, hoped to emulate -- Elton John and The Bee Gees for two. Invariably, he missed a postcard warning and one day opened a package to reveal the default title selected for him: Rush’s 2112.

He’d never heard of Rush. He didn’t listen to the only album-oriented rock station in Jacksonville, Florida that might have played anything by this trio of long-haired, kimono-clad men from Canada. He almost slid the album onto the shelf with the albums he did want, content to write it off as an expensive reminder to be more vigilant about those postcards. One thing prevented this: the pentagram on the front cover.

Flaming red, as though forged from the fires of Hell. A branding guaranteed to chafe his strict Methodist mother’s eyes every time she entered his room. He figured that alone was worth a listen, and so he dropped the needle on side one and proceeded to fall into what we at home have coined the “Ratatouille moment.”

Now, this will make more sense if you’ve seen the Disney film Ratatouille. If you don’t want to invest the time, just go to YouTube and search Ratatouille flashback. In the scene, the antagonist food critic, Anton Ego, bites into that signature dish and is transported back in time to warm memories of Mama’s kitchen and comfort food. My future husband didn’t end up in a Pixar-ed French cottage, but rather a transcendent state of progressive rock bliss. Each note of Alex Lifeson’s guitar in the overture of the title track became a stepping stone toward a new awakening.

duh-DUH
duh-duh-duhhhh… DUH
duh-duh-duh
duh-DUH
DUH-duh

Hearing it now? Imagine scores of tweens and teens and young adults transfixed by the same interstellar march. How many of them, like this young boy growing up in a North Florida subdivision, experienced the same, then scraped up their allowances to purchase Rush’s backlist?

Quite a few, if you’ve heard the music that’s come out since. Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins claimed to have spent a year teaching himself to play the entire “2112” suite. Taylor Hawkins of the The Foo Fighters told NPR in 2016, “The overture grabbed me...It was as hard as Sabbath or Zeppelin, but the technicality was on a whole other level.” His bandmate Dave Grohl spoke of the album’s influence on him in Rolling Stone: “When I got 2112 when I was eight years old, it fucking changed the direction of my life. I heard the drums. It made me want to become a drummer.”

John Petrucci of Dream Theater would also credit 2112 as the album that changed his life. He wrote in Guitar World, “[2112] opened me up to this whole concept that rock music could be bigger than just a tune—that it could be used as a vehicle to tell a story or to transport you to some other world.”

My Ratatouille moment with Rush happened years later. Being an 80s teenager, I gravitated toward the artists who made MTV look good, and vice versa - Michael Jackson, Madonna, Prince, and the second wave British invasion of Duran Duran and Wham! I’d heard of Rush, and knew them mainly as the band my friends’ older siblings preferred.

Top 40 radio didn’t play them. Tiger Beat and 16 ignored them. I grudgingly kept MTV on through their concert-footage videos while waiting for the ones I wanted to watch. For me, Rush existed beyond the planes of the comfortable popular culture bubble in which I felt happy to live - visible and perhaps warranting an occasional glance. It wasn’t until the beginning of my relationship with the man I’d eventually marry in 1994 that Rush breached the membrane.

By then, my musical tastes had expanded into heavier bands. Yes and Led Zeppelin, for two, had replaced 80s pop on my Walkman. “You might appreciate this, then,” my fiance said one night at his home as he played side one of 2112 on his parents’ stereo.

And it happened. The shrill, sci-fi whistle and howl of the “Overture” sliding into Alex Lifeson’s guitar led me into a near 30-year admiration for Rush that has included ten live shows around the country, one pilgrimage to Toronto for RushCon, a brief co-ownership of a Rush fan message board, and one meet and greet with Alex and Geddy.

My passion for this band even eclipsed that of my husband’s, and passed along to our daughter - beginning in utero. I was six months pregnant at my first Rush show; the meet and greet photo shows me standing in between Geddy and Al, holding my rounded belly as though willing away premature labor. For the first year after she was born, a bootleg video clip of Neil Peart’s famed drum solo was the only thing that could calm her down from a crying jag.

She is a teenager now, with two Rush shows outside the womb under her belt, and learning bass guitar.

***

When Rush entered Toronto Sound Studios in February, 1976, it happened likely with feelings of bemusement mixed with impending doom. Their third album, Caress of Steel, was released in the fall of 1975 to negative reviews and sold dismally in their home country as well as in the United States (it would take nearly twenty years for the album to reach RIAA gold certification). The shows scheduled to support the album, plagued by low ticket sales, became known collectively among their inner circle as the “Down the Tubes” tour.

Their international label, Mercury Records, was also losing faith in them and determined not to lose money. It appeared that Rush, despite having avoided a sophomore slump with the modest success of Fly By Night, was eventually spiraling into oblivion. The reality of an approaching end was not lost on the band. Alex Lifeson told NPR in 2016, “I remember thinking, 'I had eight years of playing rock in a band, and it's awesome, I love it, and I don't want to compromise. If this will be the end, I dunno, I'll go back to working with my dad plumbing, or go back to school, or something else.'”

Nevertheless, Mercury conceded to offer the band one last grab for the brass ring. They allowed for one more album, provided Rush ditch the cerebral, Tolkienesque rock operettas found in the last two albums for catchy radio fare. They wanted songs that could bump Captain and Tennille off the charts.

Convinced they had nothing left to lose, Rush went into the 2112 sessions determined to deliver not a simple walk into Mordor, but the mother of all musical concepts: a futuristic suite of songs born of a new mythology, taking up an entire album side. Sure, they’d done it before on Side Two of Caress of Steel with “Fountain of Lamneth,” an epic two seconds short of twenty minutes, its sound reminiscent of early Genesis. Would Rush be so foolish as to use their last chip to pull the same stunt twice?

Narrator: They were.

While time has since softened criticism of “Fountain of Lamneth” and the rest of Caress of Steel, it wasn’t exactly what an A&R man in 1975 believed would top the Billboard 100. Follow that with another ambitious sci-fi/fantasy chronicle about a gloomy place called Megadon, where nobody knew of music and flowers and love, and one would surmise Rush intended career suicide.

They wrote and recorded this album knowing the high probability of failure.

They wrote and recorded this album knowing men in suits would blanch in despair, picturing good money circling the drain.

They released this album with the knowledge that the rest of their lives hinged on the initial public reception. They’d either bring the tragic tale of Megadon in the year 2112 to appreciative sold-out concert goers throughout the continent, or be resigned to share the classifieds, checking vacant positions against what other skills they possessed.

By all logic, the latter scenario should have occurred. 2112’s release date of April 1, 1976 - rather appropriate given their situation - would follow late March blockbusters like Led Zeppelin’s Presence, which shipped gold, and KISS’ Destroyer, which would attain gold in just over a month. How could Megadon compete with “Detroit Rock City” for listeners, much less succeed over Rush’s previous efforts?

2112 shouldn’t have worked. Instead, it peaked at the fifth spot on the Canadian Albums Charts and reached sixty-first on the U.S. Billboard LP chart - the first Rush album to enter the Top 100. A little over a year later, 2112 would outsell Rush’s three previous LPs and reach sales of half a million in the U.S. in late 1977 for RIAA Gold certification.

In 1995, 2112 was awarded Triple Platinum status, putting it second only to 1981’s Moving Pictures among the band’s top selling studio albums. In a 2012 reader’s poll conducted by Rolling Stone to rank favorite prog rock records, 2112 came in second behind Dream Theater’s Metropolis Pt. 2: Scenes From a Memory.

Neil Peart told Sound Magazine in 1976 that 2112 “would have to be the realization of all our hopes.” The album represented a huge gamble for the band, one that paid off handsomely.

Forty-five years later, 2112 continues to provide “all the gifts of life,” to aspiring rock musicians and fans.

COVID Re-Read: The Love You Make by Peter Brown and Steven Gaines

So...what's new?

Yeah, I thought we'd be done with this mess by now, too. I thought 2016 had been my personal nadir, but it appears 2020 continues to ask me to hold its beer. Sometimes, though, I feel it's not my place to complain. Compared to other people, I'm not doing badly, but there are days it feels my mind and body are functioning at the bare minimum. Those days, I can't even pick up a book.

I have a healthy TBR stack meant alone for this blog, and I will finish it. To rediscover my reading groove, I gathered several titles I'd enjoyed in my youth, thinking the nostalgic factor might revive my spirits. Word of warning: if you attempt this yourself you may come away more discouraged.

A few novels I'd treasured in college...the adult me abhors. On the upside, my Carrie Fisher re-read has strengthened my appreciation for her work. In between, the Beatles tell-all The Love You Make sits.

I chose this as part of my re-read because it was the first Beatles book I ever read. It was also one of the first "adult" books I checked out of my local library, and a rather hefty tome in my eyes. I was in high school, and my classmates were either metal-heads or into Hank, Jr. -- technically, I lived in "the sticks." I listened to hippie music, and even teachers razzed me about it. Well, I have a blog with close to 100 book reviews of mostly classic rock. I guess I showed them!

Anyway, Beatles. Peter Brown had introduced my virgin eyes to the seamy underbelly of the Fab myth. I took my time with this book, imprinting the stories of rutting in filthy Hamburg toilets, toking with Dylan, meditating in their own stench while in India, and drugs fights Yoko and the clap. Decades after reading this, I could still recall passages, something not necessarily achieved with other Beatles books.

Does that mean I think this is the best of all the Beatles books? No. Some maintain Brown isn't 100% truthful, some accuse this book of being too depressing and focusing on the negative. I realize the negative is not the place to be in 2020, but high school me went into The Love You Make expecting a story. She got it. In re-reading it, she's still blown away when she's reminded of the monetary losses, the exhaustion, and the infighting these men endured when all they wanted to do was have a good time.

They worked. For them, in the end, it paid off. We still talk about The Beatles.

Be aware the stories are raw -- it's not all yellow submarines and marmalade skies. In fact, the book begins with a story some will say is cruel, of how Cynthia Lennon returned home from a vacation to find her husband with the woman who would become his next wife. While Brown was part of the Beatles' inner circle as an employee he was also close with the band, particularly John. I will always wonder why he chose that particular moment to launch the story. Many like pointing to John's relationship with Yoko as the beginning of the end, though it's not really true. My guess is Brown wanted to start shocking people right off the bat, unfortunately at Cynthia's expense.

So, I won't rank this as the definitive Beatles book as I may not have read it yet, but I will say if you have never read a Beatles biography this may interest you. 

Rating: C

Runnin' With the Devil by Noel E. Monk

I asked for one thing for my 13th birthday, a copy of Van Halen's 1984. Until that album's release I wasn't a fan; I was drawn toward them when this particular album (and MTV) brought them deeper into the mainstream. I knew die-hard VH fans in school. One classmate owned a Velcro wallet with their logo, as though that certified his admiration. Me, I was caught up in the flotsam when Jump exploded and I figured this album was a good place to build a collection.

I didn't expect to get the album, so I was surprised to unwrap it, even more so when my Catholic father insisted we play the whole thing. Understand that my father was into Roy Orbison and Buck Owens, and I had no idea what other songs were featured on this record. It could have been Jump, Panama, and six songs about "doing it." But he liked Jump - the Chicago Cubs had adopted it as their intro music that summer, so we heard the song often. Days after learning of Eddie Van Halen's untimely departure, I'm reminded of sitting with my dad listening to Van Halen - a sweet and surreal memory given they left in the same year.

Since Eddie's death we're hearing all sorts of stories about him. Not being a student of Van Halen (yes, I've read two other books, but don't ask my COVID-addled brain to recall the content), I was surprised to hear of the moments of generosity toward fans and especially the bullying he and Alex suffered in high school. One has to wonder how many of those people would tell their children and co-workers, "Yeah, I went to high school with Eddie, we were tight!" Backstage antics, like those recounted in Runnin' With the Devil, present a picture of the band I can understand. Author Monk served first as VH's tour manager, then manager, during the initial Roth era, and published his story in 2017 once a moratorium on telling his side of things expired. His book came to me as part of a group read done in tribute to Eddie. 

As a tribute...well, it isn't. Runnin' is a raw history of Monk's involvement with Van Halen, peppered with a few confessional moments that have led to litigation if secrets spilled earlier. Mostly, though, the book talks about nailing bootleg shirt vendors, how much the band liked alcohol and drugs, and how Monk basically babysat a gaggle of badly behaving man-children. Most chapters end with an ominous prediction of the end, and in Monk's defense the band did him dirty. You read of Eddie's benevolence in giving his time to the Thriller album then in nearly the same breath cutting Michael Anthony out of the money, and I don't know what to say about his character. I imagine there was more going on behind the scenes, but the book doesn't reveal it.

I would have liked to read more about the band in the studio, and while Monk stresses most of the Roth-era albums were recorded in short time, that creative process is lost among tour stories, Roth's ego, and the brothers' drinking. There's entertainment value here, yes, but nothing I hadn't expected to read.

Rating: C

Books by Drummers: Chris Frantz and Woody Woodmansey

Thanks to the coronvirus lockdown, I've nearly hit my goal of 50 books in 2020 before the halfway mark. It so happened I had two memoirs by well-known drummers come up back-to-back in my book queue, so here they are:

Remain in Love: Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, Tina by Chris Frantz

My initial reaction on finishing Chris Frantz's memoir came as a wave of relief, a feeling of happiness for having read a story steeped mainly in positivity while we continue to ride out COVID. Coming off books weighed down by heartbreaks (Open Book) and heroin (Slowhand), I was ready for something to lift me. I figured I couldn't go wrong with the story of a co-founder of an awesome band who's still in love with his awesome co-founder wife after forty-plus years.

This is not to say you're getting 400 pages of unicorns and gummy bears in Remain In Love. While Frantz gives a straightforward and easygoing voice to his memoir, there's an underlying restraint in the passages that discuss the speed bumps in his journey - about 90% of which involve David Byrne (Johnny Ramone makes up some of the difference). Frantz's life is quite a learning experience, especially for those intent on pursuing a career in music. Though I went into Remain in Love knowing next to nothing about the band (and Frantz emphasizes here that what books exists aren't wholly accurate - par for the course), I suspected I'd find some history of "us versus him" when recounting work with Byrne. That Frantz is able to handle conflicts with song ownership and contracts with calm is very admirable, and even in his writing he doesn't paint pictures of villains.

Remain in Love is a fun history of the Talking Heads, Frantz and Weymouth's long relationship and their Tom Tom Club projects. It is bit of a non-linear story, so be warned if that rankles. The highlight for me was Frantz's steel-trap recall of the Heads' European tour with the Ramones early in their career, a micro-history within the era of CBGB, early MTV, and a band that straddled rock and punk so well. If you're a fan, you'll come away from Remain in Love with a smile and a valuable lesson: listen to the woman in your group.

Rating: B

Spiders From Mars: My Life With Bowie by Woody Woodmansey

I picked up Spiders From Mars for two reasons. One: I've yet to review a David Bowie biography or related work, and this one was readily available at my library. Which brings us to the second reason: before the libraries went into lockdown I grabbed all my holds and some extras the night before. Spiders made the cut because the other books were not rock-related, and I hoped to review a few titles while staying at home. I feel I've done right by this blog over the last few months, so let's talk about spiders.

Rather, drummers. Spiders' full title is somewhat of a misnomer. Bowie's there in the title, because of course Mick "Woody" Woodmansey worked as his drummer over four pivotal albums and his breakthrough Ziggy Stardust tour. Bowie is not the complete story, however, nor the focus. Woodmansey's early small-town life and struggle to work post-Bowie take up good portions of the book as well, stories that parallel the memoir of another drummer reviewed here: Dennis Bryon.

The despair of a future in a small town with no opportunities, the discovery of music as a means to escape it, the serendipitous introduction to people who set the wheels in motion... Spiders details the union with Bowie and early days at the now legendary Haddon Hall. Yet, there's nothing in Woodmansey's voice that comes off as salacious. If you're looking for stories of Bowie banging people of various genders on coffee tables or sidewalks, while rolling in a veneer of coke, this isn't the book. Granted, Bowie isn't drawn as a saint here, but Woodmansey's narrative of whatever conflicts he endured with the singer is diplomatic.

There is a graphic novel about this era of Bowie's life called Haddon Hall that I'd like to read, to compare Woodmansey's experience.

Rating: B

Slowhand: The Life and Music of Eric Clapton by Philip Norman

Some books challenge me when it comes time to review. One I face more often than others is grading the subject as opposed to grading the book itself. Books have the ability to change minds - a person may read the Bible or the witness of a saint and experience a spiritual awakening. A meat lover may read a book on veganism and feel inspired to change their diet. In the near decade since starting this blog, my opinions of certain people have altered thanks to these books.

Books have the power to inspire, shake people to the core, and change belief systems. When I picked up Slowhand a month before the lockdown began I wondered if such lightning would strike. After reading his ex-wife Pattie Boyd's memoir, every consequent mention of Eric Clapton spurred a fantasy of him being kicked in the balls repeatedly until he passed out.

Yeh, I'm not what you'd call a fan. I'm not saying he's not a good musician and not influential, but Clapton's history of treating women like garbage doesn't endear me to him. I will add, too, my opinions of other artists reviewed here have dimmed over time (cough*Hari) - thank you, books. As Philip Norman is one biographer I like to read, I wanted to see a neutral take on Clapton's life and see about a possible change of heart.

Six days and 400-odd pages later, I still want to kick Clapton in the privates. Yet, I also feel bad for him some respects...a bit. Norman's presentation of Clapton's story doesn't sanitize his reputation, nor does it vilify him. Slowhand spans from Clapton's illegitimate birth in Surrey on to a summarized career denouement in the early 00s. Clapton's early, slow rise to celebrity - colored by strained relationships with peers, unresolved familial strife, and drugs - through the "Tears in Heaven" climax comprise the meat of the book. Norman seems to favor gossipy history over details of Clapton's craft, however. You'll learn about a phenomenon coined the "Clapton Luck," which blesses the bio's subject every time he ends up in a sticky situation, be it a near-miss drug bust or most of his sexual liaisons that don't result in kids or crabs. In actuality, it may be more white privilege or the people around Clapton who spoiled/enabled him, but sure, let's go with luck.

Of the Norman-penned bios I've read, I wouldn't rank this one the highest. I still intend to read his Jagger book, so we'll see where that one falls in rank.

Rating: B- 

Open Book by Jessica Simpson

I debated whether or not to add a review of Open Book to this blog. On one hand, the majority of titles covered here concern artists of the early (I define as the 1950s-60s), mid (70s) and late (80s) classic rock eras. I never set out to limit the blog to a specific time frame - it just happens the majority of books I find are quasi-historical. Until this point, the most "recent" artist discussed here was Amy Winehouse, who isn't necessarily classified as rock. Of course, I've reviewed Sinatra bios here, too. I'm like the Hall of Fame in some respects, reaching toward the fringes when the mood suits. If they can induct ABBA, why shouldn't I read a book about them?

We're talking about Jessica Simpson, though. The book came recommended to me via Twitter, but I wasn't going to review it here at first because I hadn't realized she started out as a pop singer. I knew she acted. I knew she had a reality show, but I had thought the show had been built on her fame as an actress and her marriage to a singer. That I'm not familiar with her music wasn't a deterrent - I've reviewed books by/about people outside my playlists. If a story appeals I read it, and the timeliness of certain themes in Open Book drew me to place a hold at the library.

One theme, really - how women have to put up with so much bullshit and fight to rise above it. Simpson's journey from Mickey Mouse Club also-ran to owner of a billion-dollar fashion empire (with a few albums in between) displayed shades of "this sounds familiar"...

• Lack of control over the direction of her career - Cyndi Lauper suffered that early on
• Pressure from labels and/or management to sex up the image - remember Heart in the 80s?
• Jealous asshole husband/boyfriend - Nearly every woman mentioned on this blog
• Body image issues/shame fostered by work environment and media snickering - Janis had feelings, too, y'all 
• That vice is a balm - Simpson liked her cocktail but thankfully didn't get into the harder stuff that helped others bulk up the 27 list

Open Book is a confessional and somewhat of a cautionary tale, one I enjoyed reading. It didn't necessarily convert me into a fan; I have my tastes, and they don't align with Simpson's style. Her story, though, pretty much confirms my suspicions of the modern music industry and its treatment of women - one can sense the hurt she experiences as scouts seem to dismiss her in favor of Britney and Christina, like she's the bronze. Reading this book, I got the impression at times there is more to tell. We get bits and pieces in various places, and Simpson's voice spoke to me of a person who tries her damnedest to be good when she'd rather be bad -- as if to prove nice girls don't have to finish last. There's a lot bubbling on the surface, but just when you think you're going deep you're taken to another place in the story.

Though I may never purchase anything from Simpson's clothing line or listen to her music, I can applaud her resilience and ability to move past years of ridicule and emotional abuse and come out a victor. Blaming Simpson for a football team's poor performance, for one... what the fuck? 

Also, J--n M---r is garbage.

Rating: B

Anthem: Rush in the '70s by Martin Popoff

Following friends and family via social feeds, I've seen a divide with regards to seeking comfort during self-isolation. Some people I know who knit, draw, or watch specific TV shows aren't doing so now, though they appear to have more time for it. They reason that they don't wish to associate things they love with a pandemic, and therefore risk losing their affinity for knitting, drawing, etc. once this is over.

Before the pandemic took hold, Neil Peart - drummer and chief lyricist of my favorite band - died of cancer. Many fans failed to find comfort in listening to the music. It served more to remind us of what we lost. I'll admit, too, I'd had a hard time getting through a few songs, much less an entire album the last few months. It's only recently that I've been able to listen to a Rush record in full.

This reluctance, thankfully, didn't extend to reading. After news of Neil's death broke, an online book club organized an impromptu read of his most recent travelogue, Far and Wide: Bring That Horizon To Me (review). More recently, I was offered the opportunity to preview the first in a series of Rush biographies. Journalist Martin Popoff, known for his books on Rush and other groups of the classic rock era, will release Anthem: Rush in the 1970s (Amazon) next month through Neil's publisher, ECW Press.

While the title provides a clear indication of content, Anthem also delivers the pre-history of the Hall of Fame lineup - Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, and Neil - as it evolved from the basement bands with names known among super-fans (John Rutsey, Lindy Young). Popoff relies heavily on interview content from band members and other personnel, notably manager Ray Danniels and touring crew Howard Ungerleider and Liam Birt - all of whom stayed with Rush for nearly the full span of their career.

Additional insight provided through interviews with family and friends, in particular "the boys'" parents - fan favorites in their own right - bring a fullness to the origin story.

If Anthem has an advantage over other Rush biographies, it's in the band's story as told by the people who lived it. While an avid fan may not discover anything they haven't already learned from the Beyond the Lighted Stage documentary or Popoff's other works, newer and fringe fans may welcome this very detailed introduction. I enjoyed this read, but will admit I'm looking especially forward to part three which presumably covers Rush in the 90s (ECW Press lists the second book as Limelight: Rush in the 80s) as it's the period where I not only discovered the band but don't have as much knowledge.

Rating: B

Idol Reading: Elton John and Leif Garrett

I rather like the tandem review format; it seems many books I read share a common theme, particularly those that aren't about the same subject. These memoirs are by two of the biggest names of the 70s.

Me by Elton John So I have an Elton John story. Sometime in the mid-00s I had a job with a web design firm. One of the firm's clients was an entertainment venue; we handled site updates and support, but a third-party server hosted the site. It came to pass that Elton was scheduled for a special performance there - a big deal since it wasn't a large venue and...well, it's Elton. The venue site was to sell tickets direct, which was important because it meant they'd profit more from those sales than from other vendors. Well, you can guess what happened the day of the sale. Site crashes, go boom. Both of my bosses are away at a meeting to renew a contract with another client, and both decided to turn off their phones because...well, Important Meeting. I'm the girl who answers the phone and never touches the venue client, and on this day I'm answering angry phone calls that are coming every five minutes. It means nothing that the crash is a server issue we cannot control. I'm the only one in the office. It's my problem to solve. For every phone call I make to the server company, I get two back from the client. Tick tock, they're losing ticket sales and people are calling them. When my boss turns on his phone, he discovers dozens of voicemails from me calling him every horrible name that comes to mind. My degree is in English; I know lot of words. Once we manage to get the site fixed the show is sold out. My boss told me later that our contact informed him that due to the botched sale, "Elton is so mad at you." I can't tell you if Elton still bears a grudge. I did learn, while reading Me, that he makes no mention of this incident, so perhaps the hard feelings have softened. Or else, this story isn't worth mentioning in the same tome as Elton's lifelong journey to a good place. Me is a thoughtfully written history rich in insecurities and yearning for acceptance, white powder, and serendipitous fortunes. It's not without a few mysteries that remain so, either - Elton's reluctance to go deep into his brief marriage to Renate Blauel inspires questions, yet ultimately they give way to admiration for the way he protects those memories. I must admit, I came into this book expecting more bravado and brag - attitude to match the costumes - but at the end you meet a person of great generosity and talent who, despite having the love of millions of fans, wants the love of family. The book surprised me and I'm glad I took the time to read it. I'm also sorry about the tickets, even though I really had nothing to do...eh, forget it. Rating: A

Idol Truth: a Memoir by Leif Garrett I should have memories of Leif Garrett, but I don't. It's strange given that, although his tenure as a teen idol was brief, it happened in a time where other names I can recall were elevated. I remember the Cassidy brothers, Andy Gibb, Donny Osmond, and pre-Thriller Michael Jackson, and their music. I remember the blinding gaudiness of 70s variety television, which was Leif's milieu. I just don't remember seeing or hearing much. Garrett wrote Idol Truth, as he explains in the foreword, to talk about what really went down during the handling of his teen idol career, basically negating some of what VH1's Behind the Music told us. Garrett delivers a personal history of minute details in very short paragraphs, and a searing indictment of his management team - people more concerned with profit than his well-being. We can tsk at Garrett's long stretch of drug abuse and womanizing, but considering the lack of authority watching out for the welfare of a child (yes, a person under 18 is a child, and this industry pushed Garrett into situations most adults never experience) may just leave you shuddering. Be aware of a number of content warnings: underage sex, drugs, suicide talk. The brevity of chapters in Idol Truth make Garrett's story read like a long arc of vignettes and you may finish in a day. However, this did make the narrative a bit choppy for me, more so with a number of repetitions in the story. Rating: C